When we write love poems
are we really writing them for someone
or for the ideal,
perfect,
imaginary lover
who deserves
all the grand metaphors,
and adoring verses?
I wrote you a pack of them
they were good ones too
I think.
I had been proud of them
until I realized
I don’t even know you
and you turned out
to not even be
what I thought
you were
Now the poems are like
hollow objects
echoing
an affection
I offered so willingly
to someone
who doesn’t even exist
I feel strange.
You know, like
when someone tricked you
into doing something good
and it should be OK
since you did good anyway
but it’s really not
and you want to kick yourself
for letting yourself do it
It’s like being raped
and giving birth
to Mozart
nine months later
an undone sin
begging for its own redemption
with its beauty
